


Bad Days

by Kay_Space_Prince (EliasGrey)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Comfort, Other, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Soulmates, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliasGrey/pseuds/Kay_Space_Prince
Summary: Phillip has bad days, Francis is a good friend, and sometimes you just need a good old-fashioned platonic cuddle session.





	Bad Days

Francis hummed a little as he worked on his laptop, unconsciously working out the newest melody for the band. His nose was scrunched up to keep his computer glasses from sliding down. Besides the humming, the only noise in the dorm room came from his typing. Deep in thought, Francis startled at the sound of two knocks at the door. When he opened it, he found Phil standing in the hallway, one arm gripping the other across his body, looking back towards the entrance.

“Phil!” Francis exclaimed happily, taking off the protective glasses. Phil turned to look at him and Francis noted the red rimming his half-focused eyes. _Up all night, or crying._ He thought. _Or both._ Forcing himself to keep a bright, unworried attitude he continued. “Great timing! I was just about to start on my history reading, and you know I do better when I’ve got someone to read to. Come in, do you want tea?” Phil nodded, almost looking grateful and came in to settle on the couch, but never relaxed his posture.

“We’re starting on the French Revolution and let me tell you, there are _way_ too many new terms,” Francis babbled while he started the electric kettle in his ‘kitchen nook’- a corner with tiled flooring, a microwave, and a toaster. “I mean what kind of political movement calls itself the Jacobians?” With the tea started, Francis moved to the small closet to find an afghan. “Ah, here it is! Anyway, did you know that this french king, Louis something, always had his portrait painted in a pose that showed off his legs because he thought they were pretty? French royalty are fucking wild, bro.” Once the tea was made, Francis walked back to the couch with a large mug, the afghan over his arm, and his textbook in his other hand. “Scoot over, it’s my couch. Here’s your tea.” Phil reached out for the mug with both hands over his knees that he had pulled to his chest. It hurt Francis’ chest to see his friend like this, not so much quiet as trapped inside himself. His eyes still stared out into the middle distance without focus. Luckily, Francis had some idea of what to do to coax him back out.

After several minutes of careful nudging and friendly squabbling through shoves, the two men settled with Francis curled and his feet up, leaning his legs against the armrest with Phil tucked awkwardly into his side. He was almost too tall to fit. The afghan was pulled mostly around Phil’s feet, with a corner covering Francis’. Francis began to read the textbook, slowly, often repeating sentences until he was sure he understood them. Phil’s head began to droop tiredly, until it was resting in the crook of Francis’ neck. Francis slowly started to run his finger through his friend’s hair, trying to sooth him through physical touch. Phil let out a soft sigh and fell into a half-asleep state. A while later, Francis woke him up.

“Hey buddy, I need you conscious for this. I’m super not getting this concept, so I’m gonna re-read the paragraph about it, then try to explain it to you, okay?” Phil just nodded, eyes closed and Francis started back up.

The next time Phil woke up, the first thing he noticed was he had slipped down from Francis’ shoulder to laying in his friend’s lap. Francis smiled when he noticed and looked up from his phone. The textbook lay forgotten on the floor next to the mug with the tea dregs. _The redness is almost gone, and so’s the puffiness_ , he thought triumphantly. There also seemed to be a hint of a spark in Phil’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Phil mumbled. He turned over to curl on his side, facing the back of the couch. This had the added effect of letting him completely hide his face in Francis’ stomach.

“It’s no trouble. You really helped me with that reading. You have good timing today though, some guys are about to come over to talk about our presentation for art apprec. Other people are gonna be around.” Phil mumbled something unintelligible. “You don’t know them, they’re all math majors or something. But I do have to get up.”

Phil groaned, but sat up and freed his friend. However, when Francis stopped to scoop up the things from the floor, Phil took the opportunity to grab him around the waist, his face pressed into his back, his legs limp.

“Oh is this what we’re doing? Am I carrying you around like some sort of living and impractical cape?” Francis felt Phil nod. He sighed. “Alright then, but you have to stand up and help a little. I have stuff to do.”

When Francis’ two classmates came 20 minutes later, they found Francis standing in the doorway with two arms still linked around his waist, and a head of long, black hair buried in his shoulder. They both smiled good-naturedly.

“Clingy girlfriend? I need me a freak like that,” laughed one.

“Nope!” Francis smiled. “Come on in.”

For the next two hours, Phil refused to stop touching Francis. He always had at least an arm around his friend, and wasn't _comfortable_ but at least less _un_ comfortable when Francis was touching him. He didn’t speak, and for the most part ignored and was ignored by the two strangers. After they left, Francis started to clean up for the night and get ready for bed. Phil trailed after him sadly ( _adorably_ ), clutching the hem of Francis’ shirt.

“Francis...” He started, quiet and unsure. “I... don’t wanna go home tonight.” Looking back at him, Francis couldn’t help but notice how lost and... empty he looked. Not even sad, just empty. Francis had always thought that Phil had a face made for sadness; he wore it well, transforming into the very picture of capital-r-Romantic tragedy. _Y’know, beautiful and meaningful._ But Phil wasn’t beautiful like this.

“You know you’re always welcome to stay here, bro,” He said. That finally got him a patented Phillip Ren Nakahara smile, where his face barely shifted. “You better be okay with sleeping in your t-shirt and boxes though because I don’t think any pants I own will fit you,” Francis joked, already on the way to the shared half-bath. They both knew there was enough of Phil’s stuff in Francis’ dorm room to service an overnight stay. _I wonder what brought this spell on,_ Francis wondered while brushing his teeth. He glanced over at Phil who was doing the same. His eyes were still tinged with red, but they had a little more focus now. His long hair wasn’t greasy, so the depression had hit him recently, and most likely suddenly.

When they finished, Phil slid into the bed and Francis locked up for the night. For several minutes, the two just lay there on their backs, 6 inches apart. Francis was nearly asleep when he heard Phil sniff.

“Oh for the love of- this is ridiculous. Wanna spoon?” Francis asked, holding his arms out to his friend. Phil nodded slightly without looking at him. “Cost of admission though is we talk about this.” After a moment of deliberation, Phil turned over onto his side so that he faced the wall with his back to Francis. Francis for his part, hugged him obligingly. Phil burrowed deep into the bed, blankets, and his friend, curling in on himself. “Do you know what started it this time?” Francis asked gently.

Phil was sobbing quietly. “It’s-it’s stupid,” he finally choked out. He’d always had problems talking when he was upset, due to a childhood habit of holding his breath to try to keep from crying. Francis just silently pulled back an arm to rub his back. “It’s stupid and it’s too much and I can’t...” Phil gasped for air. “I lost my favorite sweater. Some- some old cheap thing from a thrift store but just on top of everything... I’m never hungry and I can’t sleep and I forget all these little things and...” Phil’s voice fell even quieter until Francis could barely hear him. “I’m scared. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Feelings are stupid,” Francis agreed, “but you aren’t.”

“I’m sorry for taking all your time... I just... can’t deal with my family or even Makk right now.”

Francis laughed. “He does lay the ‘you’re so strong; you can get through this’ optimism on a bit thick. Me on the other hand,” Francis pulled back just enough to press his hand to his chest, “I tell you the fish are dead.” That made Phil huff a small laugh, almost more of surprise than anything else.

“They’re so dead.” They both began to settle down again, but this time Phil seemed to truly relax. “Francis, thank you,” he whispered.

“Anytime, bro.”

Within minutes, both of the exhausted men were asleep, cocooned in blankets with the streetlight casting yellow shadows across their backs.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a lot faster than I was expecting, tbh. This is also partially based on how I've been feeling lately- both me and Phil are touch-starved aces who lost a favorite sweater. :(  
> (The 'fish are dead' thing is from an amazing comic blog called Hyperbole and a Half, specifically Depression Part 2.)


End file.
